


like toy soldiers we all fall down

by Cerian



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Gen, major character deaths
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-14
Updated: 2012-07-14
Packaged: 2017-11-09 22:50:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/459370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerian/pseuds/Cerian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Phillipa knows it isn’t long before her time runs out. Knows it isn’t long before the cycle must repeat, now with their own children burying them. And that’s the way of the world and she’s come to term with it, fingers tracing the spinning top.</p>
            </blockquote>





	like toy soldiers we all fall down

**Author's Note:**

> This was written in response for a prompt at the kinkmeme. 
> 
> The title is kindly borrowed from Eminem's song ''Toy Soldier''.

 

**one.  
  
**

She’s nineteen and Pryia is tucked into her side, shaking, muttering something about _fucking cats and fucking chemicals_ , mouthing curse word after curse word. It makes her feel sick, makes her head swim and she tucks Pryia closer to her, whispers yes and nodding along to her rant, fucking cats and fucking chemicals, and nobody notices them because they’re safely hidden away from sight, sitting in the back, the ceremony undisturbed.

Uncle Yusuf would have noticed them, and treated them as if they were nine still, grinning at them and giving them each their pair of gum, ruffling their heads, and the memory makes it taste like childhood and grief in her mouth, leaves her a little breathless.  
  


 

 

 

**two.**

****  
She’s twenty-eight and her brother is crying besides her. He doesn’t give any indications that’s he’s crying, no sobs, no shaking, no ragged breath. Just silent tears gliding down his weary face. She’s twenty-eight and in a funeral. Her brother is crying, and it makes her cry too, silent tears falling down from her lashes, her hand tucked in James, the other wrapped around her father’s spinning top, one that he kept to himself all these years, that used to belong to their mother and now is theirs.  
  
It’s all that they have now, and she shallows thickly, feels like there’s not enough air for her to breathe. Feels like she won’t ever be able to breathe without it hurting, sharp and throbbing all at once.

 

 

 

 

**three.**

**  
**

She’s thirty-six and Arthur and Eames died together, and she wouldn’t have expected any less, because she knows, has known ever since she was eleven and walked in on them that night, saw them wrapped around each other’s embrace murmuring nonsense into each other’s mouth, the sound of skin on skin punctuating the still air, that they wouldn’t ever survive without another.

It’s a small, quiet ceremony and she places white orchids on their grave, the sun in her eyes, birds chirping in the trees. It’s not an air of tragedy that hangs in the air, she feels like she can breathe, barely – hurts if she does it too strongly, but it helps that she knows for a fact that where ever they are now, they’re together and that’s all they need, tangled in each other as they always have been.  
  
  
  
  
  


**four.  
  
**

She’s forty-two and she’s in Paris. Heavy clouds are rolling around the blue sky, light drops of rain splattering on her. Cecilia’s hand is warm and small and comforting in her own cold ones, reminds her of life, of a life fully lived and she watches as the basket is laid down in the earth.

Ariadne was the one who taught her everything about architecture, was the sole reason for her being architect as well, and she can’t help the way her hand shakes, her breathing a bit harsh, the priest’s French swimming in her head, tears and rain mixing in her eyes.

 

 

 

 

**five.**

 

She’s forty-seven and she feels tired, worn-out. She feels young and old all at once, bones aching with several funerals too many. It’s a quiet, large ceremony, men and women in black clothing standing straight and rigid. There’s a picture of him, the global multi- billionaire, arm slung around his wife and the other tucking a bright-eyed Aiko closer to his side, and it makes her smile because she remembers that one picnic – Eames’ deep laughter and Arthur’s smile, Yusuf’s secret spice that nobody could guess and Ariadne treasure hunt and Saito’s promise to buy them all the ice cream in the world and her father’s protests but giving in anyway. Remembers the warm, soothing feeling of love and affection and being young in a world too harsh, protected by adults, James and Pryia and Aiko by her side, feeling invincible.

When she reaches him, after the ceremony, they don’t talk. She pulls him into her, his own small son squished between them and feels the tears prickling down her skin, her breath labored. He hugs her back with one arm, the other supporting the weight of Katsuo. They stay like that for a long, long time.  
  
  
  
  


 

**zero.**

  
Phillipa knows it isn’t long before her time runs out. Knows it isn’t long before the cycle must repeat, now with their own children burying them. And that’s the way of the world and she’s come to term with it, fingers tracing the spinning top. The loaded dice, the worn-out poker chip are in possession with James. A bishop, which always tilts to the side, is safe with Luc and Théodore. The creased yen bill is always to found in Aiko’s wallet. A lovely golden ring, engraved with a date is worn by Pryia.

  
Soon, their children will have these things, and they won’t know what these seemingly meaningless objects are to represent, and it pleases her. It’s time they all moved on, shades and lures of the dream world buried. 


End file.
